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She was maneuvering her way through some shrubbery when her prayers were answered.
The front door opened, and Ashford stepped outside. Or at least she assumed it was Ashford, based upon his height and build. The night was dark, lit only by a pale crescent moon, and the man who eased his way down the front steps was clad totally in black.
Odd.
Noelle hunched down behind the line of shrubs, waiting until he walked past her, glancing about him before heading around back to the carriage house.
It was Ashford all right. There was no mistaking that arrogant, commanding presence, that uncompromising jaw and predatory stance.
Swiftly, Noelle evaluated her best course of action. Should she follow him to the carriage house, hope she could somehow slip past him and enter his carriage first—hiding Lord knew where—or wait here, think of another way to accomplish her goal—one that had a better chance of succeeding without the risk of discovery?
Instinct cautioned her to attempt the latter.
She studied the drive, recalled the gates she'd slid through when she entered. They hadn't been guarded or locked, but they had been shut—a condition she'd been sure to restore before sprinting across the grounds to the manor. If Ashford intended to leave his estate, which clearly he did, he'd have to take the necessary time to alight from his carriage and open the gates to make way for his vehicle to pass.
That would be her cue.
Swiftly, she emerged, gathered up the folds of her dark, fur-lined mantle and darted across the grounds, retracing her steps until she'd reached the iron gate.
There, she hid in the shadows.
Minutes later, a phaeton eased its way around the drive, moving quietly toward the gate. Surprisingly, and to Noelle's stark relief, it had a rumble seat in the back—although why Ashford had selected a vehicle that accommodated a groom when he was its sole passenger, she had no idea. Nor did she care. She had no intentions of looking a gift horse in the mouth.
She readied herself—and waited.
The phaeton came to a halt.
Ashford stepped down and moved toward the gate to open it.
The instant his back was to her, Noelle left her hiding spot, scooted over to the phaeton and climbed silently into the rumble seat. In the dim light, she squinted, searching for anything to help keep her hidden.
Again, luck was on her side. A saddle blanket lay on the floor at her feet. Dropping down beside it, she snatched it up, curled into a tight ball on the carriage floor and dragged the blanket over herself.
Mission accomplished.
A moment later, Ashford returned, swung himself into the driver's seat, and urged his horse forward.
The phaeton passed through the gates and stopped. Ashford jumped down lightly, and there was a grating sound as the gates swung shut. In a flash, he was back, taking up the reins and veering the phaeton into the dark streets of London.
Noelle felt the rocking motion beneath her and smiled triumphantly.
Wherever Ashford was headed, he was no longer going there alone.
The woman he loved was going with him.
* * *
The journey ended abruptly—in far too short a time to preserve Noelle's current peace of mind.
She had scarcely shifted her weight for the second time when the phaeton began to slow and veer to the side of the road. Then, a moment or two later, it halted.
Tension permeated her body. Why was Ashford stopping? Surely they couldn't yet have reached London's East End. That would have taken a good half hour. And even without benefit of a timepiece, Noelle assessed their travel time at no more than ten, perhaps fifteen, minutes.
Had he detected her presence? Is that why he was cutting short his trip?
Staunchly, she fought the impulse to squirm out and gaze around, to verify for herself what was transpiring and why. To do so would be utterly stupid. If Ashford had spotted her, she'd know soon enough. And if there were another reason for his actions—such as the off chance that he'd forgotten something and meant to go back—she'd be a fool to undo her efforts by revealing herself.
A rustle of movement from the front seat ensued, followed by the tugging sounds of clothing being donned. An overcoat, perhaps? He'd been wearing none. Maybe he was cold and had taken the time to remedy that. In which case, they'd be on their way in…
